


Book Ends (Of Reading Between the Lines)

by orphan_account



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Charles is emotionally idiotic, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 18:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is the owner of a book store, his best friend that he's known since high school is a cop who's recently been promoted, and, oh yeah, he's madly in love with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [somerwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somerwrites/gifts).



> Oops, I kind of took the prompt I was given and ran with it. Actually, I ran with it rather a lot. Please excuse any misspellings; it's all gone rather quickly. At the end of it all, I couldn't squeeze in as many references to literature as i planned to. Sorry.
> 
> Hope it's still enjoyable. Cheers.

Charles is fourteen when he gets his first job. Apparently he’s not actually (read: legally) allowed to work until he’s fifteen or older here in America, but Azazel, Book Ends bookstore’s owner and his boss, says that he’s the smartest boy he’s ever met, and apparently that has to count for something.

Well, he didn’t exactly say that verbatim, as it was something close to “ _Charles, you are smart boy – best of all smart boys,”_ in that broken English of his, but Charles laughed happily and thanked him all the same – he’d take what he could get when it came to compliments. He _is_ only fourteen after all.

Either way, the man was Russian. You could hear it in his voice when he spoke, see it in the way he’d walk outside when everyone was wrapped up in their scarves and how he’d call them all pussies. That’s true verbatim. It’s only one word, after all – not very hard to mix that up. Regardless of Azazel’s ability to wear a suit all year round, Charles was sure he didn’t pay much heed to the American law system, forthwith allowing him to simply pay Charles under the counter. Or, perhaps, that was Charles’ warped view of Russia. He knew better than to use a stereotype, especially with his boss, but it seemed… fitting, somehow. He wasn’t too sure, to be quite honest. Azazel just seemed that type of man. Not necessarily the type to be selling narcotics out of his basement, mind, but the type to ignore a law if it should prove itself unnecessary to him. Charles certainly didn’t mind – he was getting paid over minimum wage to work with books, after all.

Today is Tuesday, though, and Tuesdays… well, Tuesdays are never very exciting for work. Then again, midweek is never very exciting at all for anything, especially not work. It’s the beginning of summer, so Charles is out of school, and being out of school means that he can’t sit around doing his homework instead of twiddling his thumbs. Which also isn’t bad, per say, as he certainly now has more time to read all of the books that have been piling up at the foot of his bed, the pile even spilling out from under it in all directions across his floor, but he wishes he could… go out a little? He’s just getting a little fidgety, that’s all…

_Ding-ding._

Charles sits upright from where he is behind the bookcase, stowed away far back into the shop, and peers around the tall stack of books to the front entrance. He can see the door just close as he does, hear faintly when Azazel welcomes the person into the shop, his Russian-accented English thick and heavy and easy to pick up on. He adjusts himself in his seat to try and see if he can snag a view, but it’s to no avail, as the person has gone too far away from the shelves right in the front.

Charles quickly picks himself up with a small sigh then, putting his book down on top of the tall stack next to him with a bookmark slipped between his pages. He moves easily down the rows, head turned to look for any sign of life aside from specks of dust from the books in the air that flickers in the lights – the small swarms of Vashta Nerada, as it were. Charles ignores that fact with a shudder.

Amongst the last long bookshelf against the far wall – Non-Fiction, Charles notes to himself – he sees a person—

A _young_ person.

Heck, probably a boy not much older than he is.

For a moment, Charles is… star-struck, to say the least of it. _Young_ people don’t read non-fiction books – they read fiction, mysteries, adventures about heroines perpetually stuck in virtual-reality video-games who need to fight their way out or die in both realities trying. Is this kid lost? He can’t really tell – all he sees of him is his wonderfully broad shoulders _– his back, Charles. His_ back _._

“Hi,” Charles says instead. “Can I help you?”

“Hm,” the boy hums, long and drawn-out, like he’s thinking hard about his answer. Charles makes a face at his back after he stops, just to see how long he can. It’s then, of course, that the guy turns around. “Yes, could you—were you just making a face at me?”

“Me?” Charles asks and looks to his left quickly, then back to the other boy. “No?” He can see his jaw tick just slightly. Clearly he doesn’t believe him. He also happens to be levelling Charles with a glare that makes him want to shiver just slightly. He watches as the other’s eyes travel down, looking straight down to Charles’ shoes, then rake themselves back up, and Charles can’t help but feel almost a little intimidated, even though the other boy is probably only a year or two older than him.

“Regardless,” the boy begins again. “Could you help me find _the Last Year of Leo Tolstoy_ , if you’d happen to have it, please?” He finishes, adding on the ‘please’ almost like an afterthought. Charles decides immediately that he likes him – no, his attitude. He likes his _attitude_.

Then, as he turns towards him fully, Charles is taken aback a moment. He has the shoulders of an American football player still wearing his shoulder pads, the waist of a trim skeleton, and the kind of face that will be chiselled beyond belief as he ages more and more, like some sort of carved statue. Even with that kind of face, though, Charles can’t help but remember Edward Rochester of _Jane Eyre._ It’s a peculiar thought, really, because he isn’t ‘ugly’ like Rochester is supposed to be, not even a tiddly bit.

Not even at all.

Charles mentally shakes himself of his stupor and smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry, we don’t actually have that particular one in, but I can order it for you, if you like?”

The other boy takes in a breath, then nods. “Okay. Okay, sure. Thanks.”

“Not a problem,” Charles says, then feels himself panic slightly for something else to say, because the boy actually seems pretty glum about his answer, looking like he’s suddenly really very tired. “So, I bet you read _War and Peace,_ huh?”

“Actually,” the other boy says, suddenly looking away from Charles. “I haven’t read any of his books,” he says, but it comes out more like a question in his… embarrassment? Is he embarrassed?

“Oh! Well, that’s okay, you know, most people haven’t, but that’s… wait, if you haven’t read any of Tolstoy’s works, why do you want his assistant’s diary?”

“It’s just that I—uh, no, never mind, thank you, I’ll just be...” He trails off, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. He quickly gives half a smile then, lips curling in at the corners, before he turns back around and begins to leave.

“Ah, no, it’s alright, it’s fine,” Charles scrambles, moving forward to get his attention back on him – and he does, he _does_ turn back around. “I’ll just, you know… I’ll just put in the order for you and have it for you in a week, no questions asked,” he finishes, bringing his fingers to his lips and pretending to zip his mouth shut because he is literally eight years old, but the other teenager gives him a kind of sceptical, amused ‘I can’t believe you just did that’ face, but nods and smiles at him nonetheless.

“Thank you.”

Charles waves his hands, shaking his head. “It’s okay - it’s my job.”

“Is everything right here?”

Charles peeks around the other boy, then, to see Azazel poking his head around the bookcase, his eyebrow cocked at the most curious angle possible.

“Yes, yes, everything’s fine,” Charles says, and the other teenage nods when Azazel looks at him. His boss seems to scrutinise them both very seriously, and Charles feels himself tensing to be yelled at, oh god, he’s going to be yelled at.

However, Azazel merely shrugs and disappears again with a “ _Da,_ safe play, then,” which makes the other boy smile at him, a real smile like he’s holding in a laugh. He leans in close to Charles then, and – goodness, Charles hopes he doesn’t flush, he isn’t used to people being this close – laughs to him, “I can’t be the only one that finds the fact that a Russian man who speaks little English makes his living selling books written in English,” and Charles laughs a laugh that is probably much too loud.

“I’ve always wondered the same thing myself!” He exclaims, though he tried to say it softly in return. An “I hear that!” comes from around the front of the shop and they lean closer together in laughter.

Separating after a few moments, Charles holds his hand out to the other boy with a bright smile. “I’m Charles – Charles Xavier.” The other boy quickly takes his hand – honestly, Charles expected him to stare at his hand for a few moments first – and gives it a small shake with a nice grip. Charles feels like his hand is tingling from the warmth of it.

“Erik Lehnsherr.”

—

It’s really just coincidence that Erik comes around the next week around Charles’ lunch break, so, with having the hour off, they agree to go out to lunch together at the local diner. It’s there that Charles learns that Erik goes to his school, and that he’s two years Charles’ senior, making him both a sixteen year-old and a junior in high school this year. He also learns that Erik was born in Dusseldorf, Germany and moved here after his father died a few years ago, that he is Jewish, and that he eats kosher foods not really because he likes to or feels the need to, but because it makes his mom happy, and Erik loves it when his mom is happy. From there, they seem to spiral into a variety of topics that Charles never thought of ever speaking to anyone else about before, like chess, physics, and even their mutual annoyance with people using Hamlet’s ‘ _To be or not to be’_ soliloquy incorrectly and saying ‘Frankenstein’ when they really mean ‘the Creature’ from Mary Shelley’s most famous novel, which they’d know if they had actually read it. It’s also then that Charles realises they’ve been talking for nearly an hour and a half, long overdue his break time, and Charles runs back to the shop after waving goodbye to Erik.

“I’m so sorry, Azazel, I’m so sorry!”

The man just shrugs from behind the register as Charles all but bursts into the shop. “Not a problem. You are bookends,” he says simply, flipping a page in his book, which really leaves Charles drawing a bit of a blank.

“Bookends?” Charles asks. “Like Book Ends, the name of the shop?”

“ _Nyet,_ you and Erik – bookends of same soul.” As if to emphasise his statement, Azazel waves one hand in the air around his heart, but that doesn’t really help clarify it much more than his explanation did.

“What? How can you tell?” He asks – because, _really?_ He and Erik only just met – and Azazel levels him with a very sassy version of an ‘are you kidding me right now’ look.

“I have eyes, Charles,” he says, and all he can do in return to that is nod and get back to work.

—

It’s another week and four lunches together later that Erik invites him to come over to his house for dinner.

“I’m so excited to meet your mum, Erik,” Charles says, probably for the fifth time since Erik picked him up from Book Ends after work. Luckily, however, Erik seems to have the patience of a saint for him right now, as all he does is smile and laugh and nod his head and say that he knows. “I know you know, but I really am excited, Erik.”

“I know you are, Charles,” Erik responds in kind once again, half rolling his eyes and smiling up at the slowly darkening sky in amusement. Charles merely bumps his shoulder with his own in retort, Erik lightly bumping him back, and they lean together for a moment or two before straightening back up as they turn up into the driveway that leads up to Erik’s townhouse.

“Is my house small compared to your house, Charles?” Erik asks as he fiddles with the key to the door.

“Oh, Erik,” Charles laughs. “Everything is small compared to my house.” Erik looks back at him for a moment before Charles nods him on, silently telling him that he’ll explain it to him later. Erik nods back at him as he pushes the door open, letting them both inside to slip their shoes off, the cool air rushing out to meet them in the summer night.

“Mama, I’m home!”

“Erik!” A voice calls back immediately, and a woman’s – Erik’s mother – bright, smiling face appears around the corner straight ahead of them. Impossibly, the smile gets wider, and a body – dressed in a pink scrubs and a white apron – follows the head out from around the corner, a bowl in one hand. “And Charles.”

“Hello, Mrs. Lehnsherr,” he says. She quickly disappears then, putting the bowl down somewhere Charles can’t yet see. When she reappears again and walks towards them, he continues. “It’s nice to meet you – Erik’s told me all about you.”

“Nonsense, please, call me Edie. And nothing too bad, I hope,” she says, smiling softly at Erik and then wrapping her arms around Charles in – a hug? Certainly something he wasn’t expecting. Nonetheless, he hugs her back, giving her a quick squeeze before letting go, her hands ending up on his upper arms. “Erik has told me quite all about you, too.”

“Hopefully not as bad as I come off to him, surely,” Charles responds, and she laughs, letting him go and turning to Erik, then.

“Oh, Erik, he’s a keeper,” she says, laughing again as she leans up just slightly to kiss his head, even though he bemoans her doing so.

“ _Mama_ ,” he complains, but she shushes him instead and ushers them both upstairs to wait until she’s done cooking, after asking Charles if he was fine with having rosemary chicken and potatoes, and Charles decides it's going to be an absolutely excellent night.

—

Then Charles is sixteen and it’s almost three months before Erik is meant to graduate from high school. It’s a beautiful, clear night, the waxing half-moon shining so brightly it lights each individual blade of glass. It’s nearing half-past ten and Charles’ parents are out for the night, gone away for some party another and probably not expected until long after Charles has gone to bed. Forthwith, he’s home alone for the night, resolving to do his homework.

It’s also then that there’s a banging on the front door.

Charles immediately gets up, unsure of who it could possibly be at this hour, and to make such a ruckus at that. He makes his way to the window and peers out, only to find Erik’s car in the driveway. His stomach quickly tightens and spirals downwards into a thick, heavy knot deep in his gut as the pounding continues on his front door, his heartbeat rising in his throat and sounding in his ears.

He bolts down the hall and the stairs as fast as he can, nearly losing his footing as he jumps down the last few steps and finishes his run to the door, swinging it open wide just as the person outside is about to knock once more.

“Erik,” he breathes.

There are tears running down his friend's face, his eyes bright red and his cheeks flushed an even deeper red while the rest of him remains pale. His hair is a mess, his shoelaces are untied, his whole body is trembling.

“Erik," Charles begins again.

“She’s dead,” he interjects, and when he blinks more tears stream down his face. His mouth sets itself agape at the end of his sentence, like he can’t quite believe what he’s said. _Charles_ can’t quite believe what he said. “She’s dead, Charles, she’s—”

“Erik? Erik, who’s _she_ – who’s dead, Erik,” he asks wildly, his fears rolling up inside his mind and churning out through the gears a list of possibilities, but he knows who he it is, _he knows who it is._ “Erik, who’s _she_ —”

“Mama,” he breathes. “Mama’s dead.”

Charles doesn’t know what to do.

“She’s dead, Charles,” he says, blinking, tears rolling down his paling cheeks. “What am I gonna do?”

Charles doesn’t know.

Erik’s body starts to tremble before him.

“What am I gonna do?”

Then Charles arms are extending around Erik’s shoulders, bringing him in close. He doesn’t know – he hopes that Erik doesn’t notice the tears rolling into his hair as Erik lets out a cry into his neck.

Uncertain, unsteady on his feet, Charles pulls back and takes Erik’s face in his hands, his best friend’s hands moving to encircle his wrists, holding his hands against his face in a plea.

“Don’t leave me, Charles, please, _don’t leave me—_ ”

“Listen to me, Erik – _listen to me._ You’re my best friend, alright? The only one I’ve ever had. I won’t leave you – I would _never_ leave you.”

The way Erik closes his eyes and _breathes_ when Charles leans forward and kisses his forehead – just a placement of lips below his hairline – makes Charles’ heart thump in his chest.

They stay like that for who knows how long.

Charles likes that. He wishes they could stay like this. He feels like he's tingling with—

Charles feels his stomach tangle into a knot, unable to complete that thought.

His best friend’s mother – someone who was basically _his_ mother – just died and he feels _giddy?_

God, what the hell is _wrong_ with him?

Slowly, he feels Erik’s hands let go of their tight grasp on his wrists, moving up to cup Charles’ hands against his cheeks, feels Erik’s eyelashes flutter open again his chin.

He feels like he could burst. Gods, he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it.

Charles pulls back ever so slightly to press one last kiss to his forehead, then leans back to look at Erik fully.

Erik isn’t crying anymore – thank goodness – but his eyes look dark, sunken in like – dare he say it – death itself, his cheeks tear-streaked. All of him is pale, in such contrast to his dark coat and his brown-and-barely-auburn hair. He both sees and feels Erik’s fingers lacing through his own as Erik looks up to him from where he was staring downwards at goodness knows what.

“Promise me,” Erik suddenly blurts. “ _Promise_ me that—”

“I promise,” Charles finishes for him. He doesn’t know what Erik was going to make him promise, doesn’t need to. He’ll promise anything to Erik.

Whatever it was, his response seems good enough, as Erik brings their hands down then. He lets one hand go and turns the other around, pressing it palm to palm with Charles’, interlacing their fingers again. He moves forward, letting their foreheads rest together. As Erik closes his eyes, Charles looks down at their hands, feeling his heart pounding in his chest wildly. He can feel Erik breathing and he wonders briefly if Erik can feel his heart thudding against his ribs, so distinct from the staccato rhythm of all of Erik.

“Thank you,” Erik says, and it’s then that Charles figures it out.

Slowly, they make their way upstairs and into Charles’ bed, crawling under the sheets. Unexpectedly, Erik nuzzles his way into Charles’ space, something he’d never done before whenever they’d share a bed – which, mind, was nearly every weekend, all weekend, often more.

He’s got it figured out now – he knows it now.

As Erik lays his head down right above Charles’ left ribs, Erik curling up into his side, Charles hopes that he can’t hear how loudly his heart is hammering, louder and stronger than any St. Crispin’s Day speech.

He knows it now.

He’s in love with Erik Lehnsherr.

—

It’s after the funeral that Erik turns to Charles when they’re sitting on the roadside curb and says that he’s going to become a cop.

“No - a _detective_ , work in homicide,” Erik says.

It only makes sense.

In the few days proceeding, if Charles wasn’t around and school wasn’t in session (which meant he was working, because otherwise he’d only hang out with Erik), Erik was sitting in the chair in Charles’ room – “It’s the only room that faces the front, so I can see where everyone is,” Erik explained when Charles asked why he was there (not that he minded in the slightest that he was there waiting up for him) – always reading crime dramas, mystery novels, books about law and crime and justice. It just seemed like a thing Erik wanted to do, at the time.

As Charles had found out, though, Erik’s mother had been mugged walking home from the hospital she worked at, which, ironically, had only been but a few blocks away. Apparently she had put up quite a fight, and one man passing by had tried to help, but only after she had been shot. She died in the ambulance he called. The police on the scene hauled away the mugger, an anonymous man whose name neither Erik nor Charles ever learned. Secretly, Charles is happy that they never learned, after seeing the look in Erik’s eyes. He knew him too well for that. The fact that he had become so interested in law and order all of a sudden wasn’t so ‘all of a sudden.’ It wasn’t some strange fairy-tale coincidence. It was just Erik.

“I think you’d make a great detective, Mister Holmes,” Charles says later when they’re sitting across from each other, eating in Charles’ room, knocking knees under the table. Charles is trying to lighten the mood, really, because he knows Erik is boiling under the surface.

Instead, “Why thank you, Watson,” comes Erik’s reply, followed by a very subtle smirk that earns Erik a particularly hard clashing of their knees in laughter.


	2. Chapter 2

Charles’ mornings begin slowly. He wakes and stretches, usually until his back pops in retaliation and his abdominal muscles are warm with tension. He rolls his legs out of bed and into slippers, off to make tea and an English muffin or a bagel for breakfast. He’s quick to get out the door after that with all of his doctoral studies books in his messenger bag, ready to head out to the bookstore.

A few years back, Azazel had decided that Book Ends bookstore would be better suited in another’s hands, thus falling into Charles’ hands while he worked over his doctorate. He was perfectly happy to take on the job, able to take on the bookstore and power through his doctorate at once (and the money aspect surely wasn’t a bad thing – it even _helped_ him power through what a mess it was).

Today is Tuesday, a day that’s always slow for business. Sure, he’ll get the occasional customer or two, but for the most part it will be just him. Well, not _just_ him…

_Ding-ding._

“Charles!”

“Erik,” he sing-songs in return, looking up slowly after finishing the sentence he was reading from one of his genetics books to find Erik peering around the door, a bright grin on his face.

“Guess what?”

“What should I guess?” Charles asks in kind, deciding to play along as he closes his book, setting it aside as Erik fully comes in the door and closes it behind him. He’s in uniform, cap pulled over his hair and gun strapped to his waist, jacket zipped up to brave against the cold. As Erik comes more into the shop though, he pulls the cap off and scrubs his hand through his hair, pushing it back to keep it in line and push back the presence of hat hair (not that Erik every really got it in the first place, in Charles' opinion. Needless to say, Erik always looked stunning to Charles in his uniform).

“I just got back from teenage-party crashing,” he explains, walking up to the counter and placing his cap down on it easily. “You’ll love this – try and guess the theme.”

Charles hums delightedly in response a moment, rolling over the idea in his head.

“Doctor Who?” Erik shakes his head. “ _300_ toga-related party?”

“Think richer – think American.”

“Rich and American, hm?” Charles rolls his head on his shoulders, looking back at the ceiling to avoid the face of Erik’s obviously amused smirk. “I don’t think Republicans politicians much like parties, especially not ones you’d crash, although I can’t speak for the morality.” Erik laughs, loud and bright. Charles smiles. “Okay, I give. Tell me.”

“The Great Gatsby.”

“The Great Gatsby?”

“No, the adequate Gatsby, Charles,” Erik says dryly, raising his eyebrows while turning his expression stoic.

“Oh, you hush! It just seems highly unlikely that a Great Gatsby-themed party would happen, seeing as it wouldn’t be a _real_ Great Gatsby party unless—”

“Someone ended up dead in the pool at the end?” Erik finishes for him.

“Well, yes,” Charles agrees. Erik just looks at him. “Oh my god. Someone didn’t really…”

Suddenly, Erik laughs loudly, and Charles swats at his arm, making Erik simply grin wide and raise his hands in defeat.

“No, no, but I knew it’d get you going,” he explains, and Charles rolls his eyes and huffs.

“Well, I guess it was an adequate Gatsby after all, wasn’t it?” Charles replies, looking entirely full of sass as he reaches to grab his book again and beginning to ignore Erik, the jerk that he is.

“Wait, wait,” Erik says, reaching forward to place his hand on top of Charles’ on top of the book. Charles’ heart gives a wild thump in his chest. “I really did have something to tell you, though.”

Charles swallows thickly and looks back to Erik, feeling anxiety tingle its way up his spine, his autonomic nervous system coming into play.

“Something happened at the station,” Erik begins, looking serious. Maybe he wasn’t joking about some sort of homicide call after all. Even though he desperately hopes not, Charles feels giddy – Erik’s hand is still on his, after all. He can’t help himself.

“I’ve been promoted to detective.”

It takes a second for Charles’ brain to catch up.

“You’ve been… promoted?”

Erik raises his eyebrows at him, smiling.

“Erik, you’ve been promoted! Congratulations – this is everything you’ve always dreamt of!”

Erik’s face goes still, though, like he’s nervous, and he looks down at the ground.

“Erik?” Charles asks, suddenly concerned. “Is something wrong?”

“Well,” Erik says, tapping his fingers along the counter a few times, a nervous habit of his. Charles feels his heartbeat start to pick up with each quick drum of a finger against the wood. Oh god. He isn’t sure he wants to know now. Things don’t make _Erik Lehnsherr_ nervous. “Well, it’s almost everything I’ve always dreamt of…”

“I –” Charles voice cracks. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

It’s quiet for a moment.

The only word that comes to Charles’ mind is _mother_.

Then, shocking Charles from concentrating on his nervous heart and his ‘ _oh god oh god oh god’_ mantra, Erik straightens and shrugs and continues like nothing happened, saying, “No, never mind, I was just thinking out loud,” and Charles knows how Erik is, everything done with deliberacy, making  _that_   unusual for him, but Charles _does_ know him, so he drops it, his heart pounding through his skull like a stampede as he does.

“Well, anyway,” Charles begins again, overpowering his need to stammer and stutter and absolutely flounder over his loud, aching heart. “I'm thinking victory dinner, yes or yes?”

In response, Erik hums a moment, then narrows his eyes at Charles. “Was there a third option?”

“Also yes,” Charles smirks and Erik nods and raps his knuckles on the countertop.

“Yes it is, then,” Erik proclaims, like it’s a new discovery in science or his ticket to winning the lottery. Charles supposes it very well could be.

“Perfect,” he hums out in response, smiling wide. “I’ll get you at eight – my treat tonight.”

This makes Erik level him with a stare of ‘Charles Francis Xavier, you better not take me to the fucking Ritz’ which just makes Charles laugh loudly. “Forgive me if it’s ineffable, Erik,” he says, which just makes Erik mouth back at him ‘ineffable’ like a question. “Ineffable?” Charles repeats, to which Erik rolls his eyes, clearly catching the reference they just shared.

“And this, Ariadne, would be a kick,” and, even though he should have been expecting it, Charles jumps when Erik’s foot hits the other side of the counter with a loud thump.

“You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.”

“Isn’t that my line?”

“Says he who thinks eating at the diner down the road would be a victory dinner?”

“No one makes a burger quite like Darwin does,” Erik points out.

“No one indeed,” Charles concedes. “But one good burger does not entirely a victory dinner make.”

“Fine,” Erik sighs, checking his watch briefly and grabbing his hat from off the counter, putting it back onto his head.

“I knew you’d see it my way,” Charles hums back delightedly, smiling at him full-on. Erik makes a face. “Even if you didn’t, it wouldn’t matter, because I’m driving anyway.” Erik just laughs as he makes his way to the door.

“I’ll see you later, Charles.”

“See you.”

With that, Charles sits down to – as silly as it is – calm his pounding heart.

—

“So, we’re going to the Ritz.”

“It’s not the Ritz, Erik,” Charles says, shaking his head with a small laugh.

“No, it’s not _called_ the Ritz, Charles,” Erik states firmly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“It’s really not the Ritz, Erik,” Charles repeats.

“No, but it _is_ the second most prestigious restaurant in the tri-state area, a close second _to the Ritz,_ ” comes the low, returning growl from across the table, Erik leaning slightly forward to whisper it.

“Sit back and order your food, Erik,” Charles says, smiling wide, half laughing still, just as the waiter comes up to their table.

“Hello, misters Lehnsherr and Xavier,” the waiter says as he steps up to their side. “Welcome to Le Palais Blanc. My name is Janos and I’ll be your official waiter for this evening. Might I take your orders then, if you’re ready, sirs?”

“Yes, thank you, Janos,” Charles says happily, making Erik roll his eyes from across the table, all of which communicates _really, Charles, you used the waiter’s name,_ which Charles just as happily ignores as he orders. Erik’s order, in turn, is more a grunt than anything, leaving Charles to thank the waiter for both of them and hope he doesn’t spit in Erik’s food – it may be a high-end restaurant, but one can never be too careful.

“This place is so…” Erik trails off, looking around after Janos has poured their wine.

“So?”

“ _White_ ,” Erik says with a visible cringe, and while Charles wants to roll his eyes at Erik’s exasperation, he sort of has to agree. It makes everything look clean, though – clean and blinding. The walls are white, the floors are white, the tables, the chairs, and the waiter’s outfits – everything white.

“Yes, I imagine I know how a bride feels now,” Charles agrees, and he hears Erik snicker. “Okay, Erik, I’ll cut you a deal – we’ll eat dinner here and then go to whatever bar you choose, alright?”

“Cassidy’s,” Erik’s reply comes immediately.

“Cassidy’s?” Charles parrots back. “So close to home? You didn’t want to go or try anywhere else?”

Taking a sip of wine, Erik shakes his head, “No, Cassidy’s is good. We can park at my house and walk.” The man takes another sip, making a face at the wine before looking back to Charles and continuing, “Besides, they’re the only place around here that actually has good beer.”

At that, Charles nods and laughs – he’ll give him that much.

—

“Oh, hush, Erik!”

“I’m telling you, Charles, that wasn’t food! It was like one piece of shrimp on a square plate the size of a whale, for the price of _ten_ of Darwin’s burgers.”

“Shut up or I’ll make you pay the bar tab.”

To that, Erik grumbles, because he knows he wouldn’t just be paying for _their_ bar tab – something he would happily accept – but, instead, he’d be paying for _the whole bar_.

Turning into Cassidy’s then, the bar erupts around them, a good amount of pub-life noise compared to the quietness of the street, and Charles feels a sense of goodness and cheer settle into his gut.

Then again, that may be his gut preparing for the onslaught of alcohol, a different sense of goodness and cheer.

“Erik and Charles! Good to see you guys,” Sean greets them as soon as they sit at the bar. Quickly, Sean leans in rather conspiratorially, speaking with his eyebrows raised high and smug, “So, I heard you got promoted, Erik.”

Erik smiles, rapping his knuckles on the counter. “How’d you hear that, Sean?”

“Oh, a little bird told me, you know,” Sean says, leaning back and shrugging long and wide.

“Raven,” Erik says.

“Raven,” Charles agrees.

“Raven,” Sean nods, the name the only quiet word he says, his voice finally picking up to his regular volume after. “Okay, but, really, Erik, congratulations on the promotion! It’s been a long time coming. First drink’s on the house!” Across the bar, cheers raise and people whistle, shouts of Erik’s name run across the tables, and Charles smiles at him sidelong and bumps their knees together under the bar as friends call up shots for him on their tab.

Soon, round after round is called, all cheering and excitement as Erik knocks them back one after another like it’s no problem, Charles keeping pace at the start but soon falling behind. Shortly thereafter, too, he finds himself draping one arm across Erik’s broad shoulders – _oh_ , his shoulders – and saying, close to his ear, “Alright, let’s get you home, my friend,” a small laugh, feeling warm and wonderful from head to toe. He soon feels Erik leaning into him, a fine and welcome weight on him, and feels him laugh, deep and happy.

“Charles, I was making a point to… to Logan,” he says as he’s pulled from his bar stool, his weight leaning into Charles as he helps him stand up. This really surprises Charles, though, because, first, he’s surprised he can support both of their weights while he’s this drunk, and, second, he’s surprised _Erik_ is more drunk than he is – the man’s a German, he could hold his weight in liquor and still walk a straight line.

“I was making a point, Charles,” Erik says again as they leave the bar.

“And what was your point, Erik?” Charles asks in a hum.

"The point is,” he says, and it’s clear he’s trying to think of a point.

“The point I’m trying to make,” he says, brightening, “is the dolphins. That’s my point.”

Somehow, Charles doesn’t think that was his original point at all, and, really, in all his life, Charles has _never_ seen Erik this drunk. And he knows, because if Erik was drunk, Charles was drunk, too.

But, then again, Charles is quite drunk now, and Erik had more to drink than he did by far, so he brushes it off as they continue down the street towards Erik’s townhouse.

“Kind of fish,” Charles volunteers. “No, mammal. Mammal, yes.”

“Mammal,” Erik agrees. “The point is. _The point is._ The point is their brains, Charles.”

“What about their brains?” Charles asks, intrigued.

“Big brains. That’s my point, see. The size of… the size of damn big brains.” There’s a pause, and then Erik speaks again. “And then there’s the whales, you know. Brain city, take it from me.”

“Kraken,” Charles supplies, and Erik looks at him funny as they turn the corner onto Erik’s street. “Great big bugger. Sleeps under the sea, you know, under loads of huge and unnumbered polypol – polipo… bloody great seaweeds.”

“Yeah?” Erik asks, resting his head on Charles’ shoulder as Charles fishes Erik’s keys from his pocket.

“Fact.”

“There you are, then, angel,” Erik nods into his shoulder, nuzzling in and making a bloom of heat explode in Charles’ stomach as he deals with unlocking Erik’s front door and letting them in. “Ineffable.”

“Ineffable,” Charles agrees, letting them inside.

“See, that’s what I love about you, Charles,” Erik whispers into his neck, and Charles nearly lets out a moan, _barely_ manages to hold it in, because, _oh_ , Erik really shouldn’t be doing that – not _that_ spot with _that_ nose and _that_ mouth and _Erik._ Charles just hums in return, closes the door behind them, and tries to ignore the fact that Erik’s mouth is _on his neck._

“Great big brain,” Erik continues into his neck, nuzzling him, and when did Erik’s arms get around his waist? He doesn’t remember that happening. “Great big heart, great big… great big Britain,” Erik finishes.

“Let’s get you to bed, great big mess,” Charles laughs, trying to play this all off, because this really shouldn’t be happening – this _wouldn’t_ be happening if they were sober, and no matter how warm and wonderful and _perfect_ he feels, Erik is drunk. Charles is drunk too, but Erik is _drunk._

“Can’t,” Erik says into his neck, wrapping around him and mostly preventing Charles from walking any further into Erik’s townhouse than out of the entrance hallway. “Don’ wanna.”

“Erik…”

“Don’ wanna,” Erik repeats, more firmly this time, hugging him tighter against him, refusing to move. “Just wanna stay right here, right like this,” and he nuzzles more into his neck, his nose going right along that tender skin under his ear that makes Charles gasp.

“Sensitive here?” he hears Erik laugh.

“Don’t, Erik,” Charles tries to say, but Erik just laughs again, nuzzling up under his ear again, and then there’s a warm wetness and—oh, _god,_ Erik’s _tongue._ That’s his _tongue,_ and Charles _does_ let out a moan because then there’s _teeth_ , just a scrape, but Charles craves just one _more_.

“Erik, stop,” Charles tries again, because Erik is _really_ sucking at his neck and Charles is getting hard in his pants like a desperate teenager and Erik is pressed against him from chest to chest and feet to feet and he’s so sure that Erik _knows_ he’s hard, and _he_ knows _Erik_ is getting hard, but Erik doesn’t want this, Erik’s _never_ wanted this.

“Stop, Erik, stop…” Charles trails off, his efforts dying in his throat as his words because twisted around a moan that’s just Erik’s name, and Charles’ hand is in his hair and Erik’s hand is skirting up his shirt.

Then Erik’s kissing up his neck, up his jaw, having left what Charles is sure to be a bruise come morning along his pulse point, and then they’re kissing, _he’s_ _kissing Erik,_ and he moans right into his mouth, opening wide for him as soon as he’s there, Erik biting at his lips, their tongues together, but, dammit, they’re drunk, Erik’s _drunk_.

Suddenly, though, as if Erik heard his thoughts, the hand up his shirt goes from whole palm and whole fingers to just finger tips dancing across his stomach, making his abdominal muscles clench and twist and sets his heart completely alight, but Erik’s removing his mouth from his, too.

“Please,” Erik breathes, right against his mouth, and Charles feels stricken.

“ _Please_ ,” Erik says again, and Charles surges back against him, kissing him full-force – or, at least, with as much force as he can muster, what with Erik holding him so hard he could break.

 _He’s drunk_ , Charles thinks, kissing and biting and licking, _you’re both drunk._

 _He said please_ , Charles thinks again, Erik’s hand scratching around his side, _twice_.

 _Drunk_ and _twice_ and “ _please_ ,” Charles gasps when Erik pulls back from kissing him to attack the other side of his neck, biting and scraping and sucking.

Then Erik is pushing him down to the ground, sprawling out on top of him and pushing his shirt up as he grinds down against him, pressing their erections together through their pants hard enough to make him moan like a wanton girl. It seems to have the same effect on Erik though, who groans long and loud and deep into his neck. And, _oh god_ , Erik’s mouth on his neck is like bliss, and his hand pushing up his shirt more and more to expose his chest to the cool air of Erik’s house, forefinger and thumb rolling one of his nipples roughly, making Charles arch his back into him as he noses at the soft spot behind his ear.

Erik detaches himself again, moving instead to his chest, sucking and biting at the nipple that his hand isn’t currently working, and, _god_ , for a drunk he is good, and, _oh god_ , he’s drunk, Erik’s _so drunk_ , but, fuck, _fuck_ – his fucking _mouth_ is kissing down the line of his torso, his tongue is dipping into his belly button.

” _Yes,_ ” Charles breathes, Erik’s hands fumbling with his belt and button as he nips at his belly, biting at the edge of his naval.

Erik’s hand disappears down his pants, and Charles lets out a moan of _fuck yes relief_ as Erik pulls his cock out of his pants, reddened and hard and Erik’s staring at it for a moment, fingers stroking gently a few times before tightening around him, Erik just watching it move in and out of the circle of his hand, and, _fuck_ , Charles thinks he might come just from that, just from Erik watching himself stroke him off, just from the awestruck look of wonder as he does.

“I want to suck you off,” Erik says suddenly, and Charles feels his dick jump and pulse in Erik’s hand, and Erik – _Erik_ – lets out a moan. Then he opens his mouth just a little more, sticking that wet, warm tongue of his right into the slit at the tip of Charles’ cock, and Charles groans, loud and long as Erik applies more pressure. His hands fly from scratching desperately at the carpet to Erik’s hair, which Erik must take as an invitation that, yes, that is what he wants, and _fuck yes_ does he want it, he does, and Erik takes him into his mouth and _sucks_.

“Shit,” Charles gasps, because it’s good and it’s Erik and they’re drunk and it doesn’t mean anything at all, which tears Charles apart inside, makes him want to cry right then and there, but he can’t, because Erik is sucking his dick, something he’s always _dreamed_ of, and he wants to revel in this while he has it and Erik is willing because come morning he’ll hate Charles and Charles is going to take all that he can get right now.

“ _Shit,_ oh fuck, _Erik_ ,” Charles grunts again and again, and Charles pulls at his hair a little, making Erik _moan_ around him as he sucks and pumps and Charles isn’t going to last long.

Erik seems to know, though, he just seems to know, and he pulls off just as Charles begins to say that he’s going to come, pumps him maybe two or three times before Charles just _lets go,_ lets it all go, and comes across Erik’s hand and his stomach and the waistband of his underwear and trousers.

After a moment of Charles regaining his breath, he says, “Erik,” and picks his head up to look at the other, but his breath catches right in his throat again.

Above him, on his hands and knees still, Erik is furiously jerking himself off, and it’s all Charles can do to watch the red tip of his cut cock disappear into his fist and stare open-mouthed at him.

Charles quickly lifts one arm, meaning to help jerk him off – something he’s always wanted to do, touch Erik’s cock and be the reason he comes – but all his hand does is return to the back of Erik’s head and grip his hair, give a little _pull_ , just because he knows that it made Erik moan earlier and—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Erik curses, and he’s coming, across his hand with Charles’ come and across Charles’ stomach already covered in Charles’ come and a little bit on Charles’ pants, for which he thinks Erik apologises, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter one bit. Instead, Charles pulls him down with the hand in his hair, but instead of to Charles’ mouth where Charles meant to lead him, Erik lies down on top of him and buries his face into Charles’ neck again. He feels Erik breathe in, deep and long and happy, and Charles knows he could die right here, like this, right on Erik's floor, and be happy. He feels too good to be sorry that he’s drunk and that Erik’s drunk and that Erik’s his best friend and that he loves Erik and that Erik is… that Erik is…

“Erik,” Charles sighs, rather happily than anything else, but Erik’s asleep on top of him now, and it doesn’t matter anyway – Charles is drifting off, too, and it doesn’t matter anyway.

It doesn’t matter, anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

When Charles wakes up in the morning, it isn’t the morning.

It’s still pitch dark out and, for some reason, he’s lying warm and happy on Erik’s couch.

Erik’s couch.

 _Erik_.

A tangled knot of guilt tightens in his gut, and, suddenly, Charles thinks he might be sick.

As if to make things worse, he knows why he’s so warm. And it isn’t the alcohol. It isn’t a blanket, either.

It’s Erik.

Erik is wrapped around him, the big spoon to his little spoon, one leg in between Charles’, his arm draped over him. Charles, for once, isn’t sure if he wants to die of joy or guilt.

Slowly, carefully, Charles extricates himself from Erik’s arms, trying not to wake up his best friend. As he gets up, though, his head starts pounding to a beat he’s only ever heard in the bad pop music Raven listens to, and he groans. Behind him, Erik makes a small sound, and Charles freezes, looking over his shoulder in worry, afraid he’s been caught out. All Erik does is nuzzle more into the space where Charles was, and Charles breathes out a soft sigh of relief.

Looking to the clock now, Charles realises it’s half-four in the AM, and the knot in his stomach twists harder as he looks back again at Erik.

Quickly, Charles steals away to the linen closet near Erik’s bedroom, picking out the warmest blanket he can find and grabbing a pillow from Erik’s bed. He neatly tucks the pillow under Erik’s head, still being so careful not to wake him, and drapes the blanket over him.

Standing there, though, looking at Erik’s sleeping form, how peaceful he looks, Charles’ stomach twists and his head pounds, both angry and upset at him for what he’s done.

Charles crouches down to eye level and, tentatively, reaches forward with one hand, placing just his fingertips to Erik’s cheek. Slowly, he places his palm down, caressing his cheek, and as soon as he does, Erik nuzzles his hand just a little bit in his sleep, pressing into the warmth he finds there with a murmur, and Charles feels his throat tighten and he has to suppress a sob.

He knows Erik is going to hate him come morning, so he leans forward, presses a soft kiss to Erik’s forehead – the last, he thinks, he’ll ever be granted – and quietly takes his leave.

—

Charles wants to clap with joy later that day as Alex walks into the bookstore to start his shift.

“Alex, so good to see you!” Charles calls at him as he shelves books. He can hear him laugh from across the store, soft but bright.

“Always good to see you too, Charles,” he says, making her way to him.

“Just a heads up,” he says, glancing at the blond briefly and then making sure not to look him in the eye again, “I’ll be heading home soon, and if Erik shows up and asks where I am, just tell him you haven’t seen me, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, but he knows that Alex is looking at him strangely. “You two have a fight or something? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you fighting before.”

“Something like that,” Charles say softly, forcing a smile that he knows the younger boy can tell isn’t true.

The good thing about Alex, though, is that he doesn’t ask again.

—

“Is everything okay, Charles?”

“Yes, Angel,” answers Charles as he shrugs on his coat, glancing back at where the raven-haired girl is restocking the bookshelves. “Everything’s just fine.”

“Are you sure?” Angel asks again, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye as she puts up a copy of _Dune_.

“Yes, Angel,” Charles repeats, giving a soft laugh, even though his stomach tightens its knot.

“I was just wondering, you know,” Angel continues, looking at a cover on a book of _Sense & Sensibility_, “Because Erik has been coming around every day for the past three days asking for you, and every day you tell us to tell him you’re not here while you hide at home. Darwin told Alex and I that he didn’t see you at all on Tuesday with Erik like usual. Apparently Erik waited there for over two hours before he just went home.”

Charles feels like he’s going to vomit.

“Angel, everything’s okay, I promise,” Charles assures with a quick touch to her shoulder, and he feels his throat constrict around the need to cry when he turns away again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Angel.”

“See you, Charles,” she responds in kind, and then Charles is out the door and down the street.

Of course, Charles does feel bad about ignoring Erik, but he isn’t sure he could handle that kind of confrontation. He _loves_ Erik, has loved him since he was _sixteen_ , but for Erik to yell at him and ask him why he didn’t stop and why he let him continue on when Charles could have stopped him many times over and then tell him how much he hates him and that their friendship is over—well, Charles isn’t sure he can handle that. Actually, no, he thinks as he sits down on his couch in his apartment, sinking in the cushions – he _knows_ he couldn’t handle that. It would ruin him – _devastate_ him, really. Erik is too important to him.

And, sure, it hurts just as much this way, with him ignoring Erik in hopes that maybe Erik will come to the realisation that they were drunk and that it didn’t mean anything and that Charles is embarrassed by it – and, okay, that isn’t the whole true and Charles bloody well knows it, because it _did_ mean something for Charles, even if it broke his heart and left him feeling guilty and afraid and alone and jacking off to the memory every night since then, but that only serves to make him feel more guilty and afraid and alone, and it’s better this way. This way, at least, Charles has some control over it.

Charles takes in a deep breath and rolls over on the couch to lie on his stomach, sighing into a pillow and kicking his feet back and forth in the air in lieu of a miniature tantrum.

Okay, so maybe it isn’t any bloody better at all, because maybe if Erik yelled at him and broke it off then at least he wouldn’t feel so guilty, but then he’d probably be miserable that Erik _said_ that he hates him. He knows Erik hates him, which does hurt in theory, but it’d hurt so much worse if Erik were to really say it to his face, and that would probably be the end of Charles for a long, long time.

Groaning loudly and unhappily, Charles picks up the pillow and places it on top of his head, attempting for a brief moment to just suffocate himself with the couch cushion. It’d be the easiest solution.

—

“Charles?”

Charles jerks awake from where he’s been asleep on the couch, the pillow that he had rested atop his head falling off and down onto the floor. He looks around him – it’s dark, probably heading on very late, and Erik is here.

Oh _god_ , Erik is here _._

 _Waiting outside his door_.

This, he knows, he can’t avoid. Erik probably knows he’s here – there are too many lights on for him _not_ to be here. He can’t escape at all. Erik’s outside his door, and even if Charles didn’t let him in, Erik would probably let himself in with the spare key Charles gave him when he first moved in.

“ _Shit,”_ Charles mutters under his breath, rolling off the couch and making the quick decision that hiding seems like the best option.

Just as he ducks into the closet in his bedroom, he hears the lock slide out place in his front door. He hears Erik step inside and shut the door behind him, calling out once again, “Charles? Are you home?”

Instead of answering, Charles pushes himself farther back into his closet, feeling both like a shameful child hiding away from an abusive parent and sick with dread, the knot in his stomach threatening to make him burst open.

“Charles?” He hears Erik call one last time, and through the crack in the door sees him peer into his bedroom and look around – and, god, he looks so disappointed when he sees that Charles isn’t there. Charles’ heart clenches and throbs, and Erik steps a little more into the room, his hands wringing his police hat in worry as he looks around.

Glancing back over his shoulder once before doing anything, Erik moves forward slowly, walking towards Charles’ dresser. Erik inspects the two pictures there – Charles knows what they are, one of Raven as she graduated, the other of him and Erik when Erik, too, graduated long ago.

Carefully, Erik reaches for one – the one of them together at graduation – and picks it up, looking at it sadly, like he’s about to cry. Charles isn’t sure what to do. He looks down to his feet, and when he looks up again, Erik is gone, and he hears the lock to his front door slide back into place.

Charles lets out a sigh of relief, standing up and swatting away clothes from his face as he exits his clothes – and, goodness, does he feel like a right child, hiding from his best friend in his fucking _closet_. If he weren’t himself, he’d probably punch himself right now.

Instead, Charles grabs for his phone.

“Hey, Charles,” Raven answers when she picks up, almost immediately after the ringing begins.

“I’m coming over, Raven,” he says, slipping his feet into his shoes and grabbing at his peacoat.

“Now?” Raven asks. “I mean, I don’t really care if you do – actually, now would be perfect. Moira’s here too, so we can all hang out.”

“Perfect,” Charles breathes, shrugging into his coat. He’d really rather just be alone with Raven right now, but it doesn’t matter. Moira’s a good girl and they’ve been friends for a few years now, and he’ll take what he can get. “I’ll be over in ten.”

“Perfect! See you soon,” she says, and with that, they hang up.

Quickly, Charles rushes about his apartment, shutting all the lights off and closing and locking the door. He makes his way down quickly to his car, fumbling with his keys next to his car – he’s shaking.

“Shit,” he curses, nearly dropping his keys twice in an effort to unlock his car door. “Shit.”

Finally, he slides into the seat and sets the car into reverse to pull out. Just as he turns the corner, in his rear view mirror, there he is – Erik. It’s Erik. And Erik knows it’s him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Charles spits, turning the wheel as fast as he can because Erik is _running towards his car_. “Bloody, bleeding, buggerin’ _shit_.”

As he presses his foot to the gas pedal and speeds away, he can see Erik slow down in his rear view, eventually stopping when he’s just a speck in the distance and running his hands through his hair, and Charles feels one tear slip down his cheek as he says that he’s sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

“So you ran away from him in your car.”

“Yes,” Charles says, closing his eyes.

“And he ran after you.”

“Yes, Raven,” he sighs.

There’s a small pause.

“Are you _sure_ he’s mad at you?” Raven asks.

“ _Yes,_ Raven,” he says, throwing an exasperated look at her from his position on the sofa.

“I dunno, Charles, I think it sounds a little like he just wants to talk to you,” he hears Moira suggest.

“Probably to yell at me.”

“Yeah, well, _I_ think it sounds like you’re being a teenage _girl_ , Charles,” Raven snorts, and he nearly throws a pillow at her. “I’m just saying!”

“You should talk to him, Charles.”

“And say, what, I’m sorry I took advantage of you while you were drunk so that we could have sex and I hope we can still be friends?”

“Well, Charles, _you_ were drunk, too,” Raven supplies, and Moira nods along with her.

“So, Raven, if we were drunk and you instituted having sex with me and I didn’t stop you even though I was significantly less drunk, you’d still want to be my friend?” Charles asks, half throwing a glare at her. All she can do is make a face.

“Okay, maybe he is a little mad, but you should still talk about it!”

“I feel like that’s illegal somewhere,” Charles says, burying his face into hands.

“Talking?” questions Raven.

“Taking advantage of a drunk person,” he groans.

“I don’t think so – at least, not since you were drunk too,” Moira adds.

“But still significantly less drunk than he was,” Charles moans.

“Sober enough to pass a breathalyser?” Raven asks.

“You could have no alcohol in your blood system, swish wine around in your mouth, spit it out, and still fail a breathalyser,” Charles says, rubbing his eyes and sitting back into the couch. Moira, from her chair, nods, and Raven, in hers, rolls her eyes.

“Whatever, boy genius, how drunk were you?”

“Drunk enough to go with it but sober enough to feel bad about it,” Charles sighs. He can _hear_ Raven rolling her eyes again.

“Charles,” Raven says, her voice suddenly very serious, calling his attention from the carpet to her face. “Did you ever stop and think about how Erik is probably reacting right now? You’ve been ignoring him since it happened, and literally _ran away_ from him.”

“I think I’m gonna vomit,” Charles says in lieu of giving a real answer, but he does feel that way.

“I really don’t see why you two can’t just talk this out,” Moira sighs. “You two are like book ends of the same soul or something, you know? You think that’d make it easier.”

Charles sits up suddenly.

_"Nyet, you and Erik – bookends of same soul…"_

Book ends?

Moira nervously glances at Raven, unsure of what she’d done as Charles stands up and makes a mad dash for the door without so much as a goodbye.

“Was it something I said?”

—

It’s raining heavily by the time Charles manages to find a parking spot down the street from Erik’s townhouse, and he knows that as soon as he steps outside of his car he’ll be soaking wet, but it doesn’t matter, and he steps out anyway.

As soon as he’s out of the car, he really is soaked to the bone, and he runs his way to Erik’s building, then up the three stairs to his door – nearly tripping on the way more than once – and fishes out Erik’s spare key that he gave him all those years ago, fumbling with it in the lock to Erik’s door.

When he swings the door open wide, he sees Erik jolt from his position on the couch, the TV set to some Austen period piece or another – Charles suspects _Pride and Prejudice_ – the man turning to face him, clad in only a dark grey-green t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

“Charles?” He asks, looking like he’s about to jump up from his position on the couch and pull Charles inside and out of the rain from where he remains just outside the doorway. “What the _fuck?_ You’re soaking wet, you’re gonna catch cold, what the hell are you—”

“I love you, Erik.”

There’s a long moment of silence, in which the only thing Charles can hear is the soft sounds of the TV, the rain outside, and his heartbeat in his head. Erik stares at him for a long time before he breaks the silence again.

“What?”

“Since we were kids, I’ve loved…” He starts, trailing off because has to swallow back his tears now that he can feel them threatening to spill over.

He tries to continue, “I’ve loved…”

A tear slips down his cheek.

“I love you.”

It’s quiet again, and in that moment Charles wishes he were dead.

Suddenly, Erik is pushing himself up off the couch in a scramble, bumping the coffee table in a way that Charles knows will bruise come morning, fumbling his way to Charles. Then Erik’s hands are around his face and Charles lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding just as Erik kisses him firmly, and then every breath he takes is all _Erik_.

Erik has both hands on either sides of his face, and Charles doesn’t know what to do with his hands except grab at Erik’s belt loops, even as their kiss turns more and more harsh, soon just becoming a tangle of tongues and hot breath, both unsure of whose is whose, but, this time, it _really_ doesn’t matter.

“Fuck, Charles,” Erik breathes when he eventually he pulls away, resting their foreheads against each other, he arms encircling Charles in his entirety, and, god, yes, he feels so _right_ , so _good_ , finally, finally, finally.

Erik pulls back just slightly to kiss the few tear stains on his cheeks, and Charles closes his eyes and breathes in, deep and long and _good_ , and Erik is hugging him so tightly now he thinks he’ll break, but that’s okay, that’s good, that’s where he belongs, and he’ll happily break for Erik.

“I love you too, Charles,” Erik says, and Charles opens his eyes to look into Erik’s. “Good fucking—I’ve always loved you too,” he continues, then closing his eyes and kissing Charles’ forehead.

“I love you,” Erik adds again, kissing the tip of his nose.

“And I’ll always love you,” he finishes, just a breath against Charles’ lips that makes Charles gasp against him, welcoming anything that Erik is willing to give him. Erik simply kisses him like that, barely even a touch of lips like a murmur against his mouth, then a gentle nip with his lips to Charles’, then a chaste kiss as Erik’s fingers find his, to have and to hold.

Then, Erik is pulling back to lean across him. He hears his keys jingle in the door, and then feels Erik push the door shut. Charles looks up to him as Erik pulls back and tugs gently on his hand, nodding in the direction of the back hallway, saying, “Come on, let’s get your clothes in the dryer.”

Once they’re in the back hallway, Erik looks back at him softly and releases his hands, touching them softly to Charles’ sides.

“Let me,” he says, and Charles lifts his arms so Erik can slip off his jacket, then lifts his arms even higher so Erik can pull his wet shirt off and toss it into the dryer with the jacket, Erik’s slightly rough fingertips dancing up his stomach the whole time, making Charles want to shiver with every touch.

“Trousers,” Erik says, leaning forward and feathering a line of kisses along Charles’ collarbone, making him forget what he even said in the first place. Once at the other end of his collarbone, Erik says again in a small laugh with a long, soft smile, “Your trousers, Charles.”

“Yes, sorry,” Charles says, undoing the snap and shuffling out of them, leaving him in only his boxers, before handing them to Erik, who then tosses them into dryer with everything else.

“You shirt,” Charles says, and Erik looks back at him with a questioning brow. “Your shirt’s all wet because of me,” he explains, point to the now dark green spots of water on his shirt. Erik hums in reply, straightening to peel off his shirt, making Charles take in a deep breath in return as more and more of Erik’s torso appears. After Erik pulls the shirt over his head, seeing Charles’ expression, he smirks, turning around to push his shirt into the dryer with Charles’ things, giving Charles an _excellent_ view of his back.

As Erik fiddles with the settings on the old dryer, Charles traces the lines of his torso with his eyes, memorising everything he can and placing it in the forefront of his memory to revisit on slow days when Erik isn’t around, the way his shoulder blades protrude just so, the neat, thin line of that spine of his, the dimples of his lower back.

Unable to help himself then, Charles puts his hands on Erik’s hips and leans forward, pressing his nose in between Erik’s shoulder blades to align the tip with his spine, breathing in deep that perfectly _Erik_ smell, feeling a rush of passion and lust and adoration as Erik continues on what he’s doing, like it’s normal for Charles to touch him just like this, just hold his thin hips, touch the sharp hipbones just so, trace his hands up along his torso and up to press his palms flat along his chest. Erik hums, then, low and deep, a song Charles might know if he were paying attention, and Charles can feel it in the cheek pressed against his back and in his hands pressed against his chest. They stand like that for a little while after Erik sets the dryer, Erik in only his trousers, humming softly as the dryer spins into life, and Charles against his back in nothing but his boxers, and it’s perfect.

Slowly, though, Erik turns around in his arms, and Charles finds himself pressing his index fingers into the dimple of Erik’s lower back, feeling like they fit perfectly there as Erik kisses the freckles dotting his shoulders, pressing just the tip of his tongue to particularly large ones until he makes it to his neck, where he bites and kisses and sucks until Charles can’t do anything but grope at him and moan.

Erik kisses up the column of his throat, moving along his jaw to the tip of his chin, then to the corner of his mouth, making Charles turn his head to meet him, and Erik hums against his lips, Charles wrapping his arms around Erik’s neck to make up for their slight different in height, standing between his legs as Erik leans back against the dryer, his hands kneading Charles’ ass cheeks, rolling them as he pleases.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Erik says, kissing the spot just under Charles’ ear that makes him arch his back, pressing their chests and groins together as he gives a slight nod in agreement.

They make their way upstairs, Erik pulling Charles along by their entwined fingers, leading him right into Erik’s bedroom and right onto Erik’s bed.

“Lay back,” Erik whispers, and Charles does so, lifting his hips so Erik can pull his boxers off and spreading his legs wide for him, his half-hard cock falling back against his stomach. Erik kneels over him, appreciating the view of Erik stretching out above him to reach something in the side drawer.

When Erik pulls back with a bottle of lube in hand, he looks at Charles, asking, “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Charles breathes, _god_ , yes, it’s okay. He’s done it to himself all the time before thinking of Erik, and now he actually wants Erik to do it himself.

Before Erik takes the cap off, he leans back over Charles, nearly making Charles lean up and lick at his perfect chest, and grabs a pillow, situating it under Charles’ lower back to raise him to a more appropriate level.

Erik pops the cap back on, a decent amount squeezed out onto his fingers, and sits back on his heels between Charles’ spread thighs, still wearing his jeans. He leans down then, one wet finger probing at his entrance and his wet mouth kissing Charles’ inner thighs. As he presses one finger in, Erik kisses and nips his way up Charles’ thigh, moving from behind his knee all the way up to the V of his thigh, nuzzling gently at Charles' now fully-hard cock with his nose, warm breath escaping over it as he presses in a second probing finger, and that’s all enough to make Charles shiver.

“Fuck,” someone says, and he’s really not sure if the sigh of the word was himself or Erik as he clenches down on Erik’s fingers for kicks and giggles.

Then Erik is _really_ mouthing at his cock, kissing along the side and making his way to the top, where he presses the tip of his into the slit again, making Charles writhe a little, and Charles can feel the ghost of Erik’s laugh over the tip of his erection.

“You were already a little loose down here, Charles,” Erik says, then pausing to give his cock one long, hard _suck_. When he comes off with a _pop_ he continues, “Did you masturbate like this, fingering yourself and thinking it was me instead?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Charles groans back immediately, and he _knows_ then that Erik is one the cursing, burying his face into his thigh as he stretches three fingers wide inside him.

Charles grunts then as Erik pushes in a fourth finger, giving him time to adjust before he spreads his fingers wide, stroking Charles’ walls and hitting that one place that makes him arch his back and _moan_.

“Right there, huh?” Erik asks, lapping at his cock as he asks, thrusting his fingers against that spot, making Charles erupt into a curse each time he does.

“Erik, please – Erik, _fuck_ – please, come here,” Charles says, meaning for Erik to lean up and kiss him. Erik complies, leaning back first and standing up to push down his trousers and briefs, his erection bobbing free into the air, the tip red and blunt and Charles moans at the sight.

“Come _here_ ,” Charles repeats, a little more forcefully this time, and Erik basically throws himself atop him, aligning their cocks on the way down before pressing their mouths roughly together for a heated kiss. Groping blindly for the lube, Charles squirts some onto his fingers before throwing the tube aside again. Erik looks at him curiously, furrowing his brow, but once Charles aligns their erections again and strokes them together, rutting against him, Erik lets out a long, deep moan, throwing his head back a little before plunging back down to claim Charles’ mouth, Erik’s hand moving up to join Charles’ and stroke them together in earnest.

Soon, Charles feel himself beginning to tumble over and he chokes out, “Erik, I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” Erik says, and Charles bucks against him out of sync, really unable to control himself, and comes between them, his seed coating his stomach and their hands, just adding more slick for Erik to thrust into.

Quickly, though, Charles becomes over-sensitised and pushes Erik off from over top of him, rolling them over and straddling his hips, rolling back against his cock that juts up in between Charles’ cheeks. Erik’s head rolls back onto the pillow behind him with a moan, his hands grabbing at Charles’ thighs just for something to hold as he thrusts up.

When Charles moves forward off his cock, Erik lets out a grunt in protest, but it’s soon swallowed up with a groan of encouragement as Charles wraps his hand back around him, stroking him hard and fast.

Erik doesn’t last much longer after that, thrusting up into the tight circle of Charles’ hand, and coming right into it with a heavy “ _fuck_ , Charles,” coming between his fingers, Charles stroking him for all that he’s worth.

With that, Charles stretches out across him, pressing their entireties together, kissing and sucking at Erik’s neck this time, which only manages to get another, more blissfully post-coital, “Fuck, Charles,” out of him and Charles begins to leave marks, Erik lazily stroking and scratching at his back.

Eventually, Charles gives up, nuzzling instead into Erik’s neck, tracing his jawline with his nose, and, after a long while, Erik hums at him.

“Do you work tomorrow?” Erik asks, and Charles hums in agreement. “Can I stop by and ask you out for lunch, then?” Charles laughs into his neck.

“Sorry, yes, you can stop by any time you want, love,” he nods, pressing a kiss to the shell of his ear, and under him he can feel Erik laugh and knows he’s smirking wide as he pets him.

“You know,” Erik says contemplatively, “I’ve always wanted to fuck you in the shop, right up against the shelf where we first met, on the floor right there.”

“Is that so?” Charles chuckles.

Suddenly, Erik is rolling them over, pressing kisses to his collar bone.

“It is so, yes,” Erik says, and Charles runs a hand through his hair, making Erik hum against his chest.

“You know,” Charles says, drawing a lazy pattern with his free hand on Erik’s pectoral, “I’ve always wanted to try those handcuffs of yours.”

Below him, Erik’s head jerks up, staring at him very seriously for a long moment before he smirks long and wide.

“I’ll race you downstairs to see who can get them first.”

“Oh, you’re _so_ on.”


End file.
